


A Little Hell

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feels, Polyamory, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha finds him in the Helicarrier's infirmary. She can’t be sure whether this is the very same room where she watched him fight off Loki’s hold, but the air is so thick with memories that it might as well be. </p><p>[A post-Ultron ficlet.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _electric shocks to aching bones_. This was a flash fic, so it's unbeta'ed. Also, I'm thinking about making this part of a larger fic 'verse, so if you're interested in reading more, please let me know!

Natasha finds him in the infirmary on the Helicarrier. She follows her gut there more than anything, but she isn’t surprised when her suspicion is confirmed. 

Clint has his back to the door, rummaging through one of the drawers for supplies, though she thinks she’d recognize that silhouette anywhere. He was in one piece--more or less--last she saw him in the city, but her stomach tightens with concern anyway. She pushes the door open without pretense, slips into the room, which smells faintly of disinfectant and recycled air. It’s full of ghosts, she thinks, as she catches sight of the cot against the far wall, tries not to picture Clint’s fevered form struggling against the restraint cuffs which come standard issue. She can’t be sure whether this is the very same room where she watched him fight off Loki’s hold, but the air is so thick with memories that it might as well be. 

“Hey,” says Clint, glancing at her over his shoulder. There’s a smear of blood drying on his cheek, and Natasha decides she doesn’t want to think about whose it is.

“Hi,” she breathes, the sound of her own voice making her realize suddenly that her ears are ringing a little from the blasts, her head feeling light as she catches up on oxygen in the ‘carrier’s artificial climate. She hasn’t even realized how much the fight’s taken from her until now, seeing it reflected in his face.

“You okay?” he asks, and it takes her a beat to realize he’s referring to the med kit he’s finally managed to pull out of storage. He sets it on the table beside the cot.

“Fine,” says Natasha, though it doesn’t sound entirely convincing even to her. Her left knee is beginning to ache--an old injury agitated by all of the impacts today--and a headache is throbbing dully in her temples. She needs to eat, she thinks, and to sleep for roughly a week, but right now she’s still entirely too wired on adrenaline to even consider doing any of those things. 

“Right,” says Clint, giving her a look which tells her he isn’t buying it. He has more pressing injuries, though, she realizes, catching sight of a tear in the fabric of his vest, the darkness of blood making her heart skip a beat.

“How bad?” Natasha asks, taking a step closer and swallowing down the impulse to chastise him, knowing from experience that it won’t do anything but make him less forthcoming.

Clint shrugs. “Haven’t bled out yet.”

“Clint--” she begins, despite herself, but he just holds up a hand in surrender. 

“Okay, okay. Let’s find out.” He makes quick work of his vest and undershirt, stripping to the waist. There’s half-dried blood covering a swath of skin down his side to his hipbone and Natasha sucks in a breath, her mind immediately jumping to the thought that he’s improbably managed to reopen the wound mended by Cho’s miracle machine.

“Let me see,” she says firmly, slipping her gloves off and quickly pouring antiseptic onto gauze from the med kit before closing the rest of the distance between them.

Clint flinches away reflexively, but stills when she rests her free hand against his shoulder and gives him a look that says it will hurt worse if he doesn’t cooperate. Still, he hisses when she begins cleaning the wound, telling Natasha that it hurts worse than he’d like to admit.

“Looks like it’s just a bad graze,” she says after a few minutes, when the blood’s given way to reveal mostly-intact skin. “Congratulations, you’ve managed to get shot twice in the same spot in less than a week.”

“Lucky me,” says Clint, flinching when she begins to clean the wound more thoroughly.

“Lucky you,” she echoes, seriously, “if this is the worst of it.”

“It is,” he sighs, “though my bruises aren’t looking forward to waking up tomorrow morning.”

Natasha snorts, the first real sense of relief since this whole thing started beginning to settle over her. There’s something soothing about caring for him like this, the grounding warmth of his skin under her hands, the familiarity of the act. “How terrible for your bruises.”

“They’re wimps,” Clint teases. He falls silent for a few moments, letting her work before speaking again. “Banner make it back okay?”

Natasha covers her reaction by turning back to the med kit, knows he’ll see it anyway. She selects a tube of antibiotic cream and a fresh roll of gauze.

“I’m sorry,” says Clint, when she turns to face him again.

Anger flares in the pit of her stomach, though she can’t entirely say why. “He had the opportunity. He made his choice.” 

It shouldn’t feel like a real loss, she thinks, avoiding Clint’s eyes as she spreads the cream on before taping down strips of gauze. Bruce was never anything more than a possibility, and maybe an imagined one even at that. It shouldn’t sting, but it does.

“Hey,” says Clint, touching her cheek and waiting for her to look up at him before he speaks again. “His loss, yeah?”

“You’re filthy,” says Natasha, pulling away to pour more antiseptic onto gauze and handing it to him.

Clint sighs, quickly cleaning the rest of the blood off his face and arms. Natasha packs up the kit because she needs to move, needs to keep the empty gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach at bay. She crosses the room, shoves the kit back into the drawer with more force than necessary. She’s being irrational, she knows, ought to shake this off and be grateful the world’s still in one piece. It isn’t even about Banner, really--It’s about the fact that somehow she feels more alone than ever, surrounded by her teammates.

“Hey,” Clint says again, stepping into her path as she moves to leave. He catches and holds her gaze, seeing everything the way he always has.

“I miss you,” he breathes, as if sensing the gulf in her chest, showing her his own emptiness.

“You have the baby coming,” says Natasha, though she’s sure it isn’t like he’s forgotten.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Laura misses you too.”

Natasha studies him for half a moment longer, sees the truth of that statement and that he’s been waiting to tell her. She doesn’t reply in words, just steps into his space and kisses him roughly.

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, when she breaks away, and suddenly she isn’t thinking of anything but the way he shudders under her hands, the carefully-tempered longing she glimpsed in Laura’s eyes, and how long it’s been since she touched either of them like this.

“Yes, please,” she whispers, which earns her a full-throated laugh. 

Clint glances around the room, then apparently decides they won’t find anywhere better in the near future. He crosses to the door in two long strides, locks it, then flips the switch on the wall to the privacy setting that obscures the observation windows.

Natasha doesn’t waste any time either, stripping off her suit as soon as the room’s secured. She shivers at the sensation of sweat drying on her skin, feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with undressing.

“Damn,” Clint says appreciatively, and Natasha rolls her eyes, but lets him crowd her back against the edge of the cot. She’s ready to let him take the lead now, is far too tired of fighting demons.

Clint winds his fingers into her hair, kisses her again, hungrily, hard enough to bruise. She rakes her nails over his back in return, like the marks might make him hers, might prevent the world from stealing him away for the next few hours at least. He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat--he’s always been quiet, especially in the field--and brings his other hand down to cup her breast, teasing the nipple with a callused thumb that makes goosebumps erupt down her back.

She has no patience for foreplay today, though, wants him quick and rough. Natasha moves to undo his pants, hoping that he’ll get the hint. Clint huffs out another laugh, has seen this act from her countless times before. He has always taken care of her better than anyone.

He moves to shed his boots and pants while Natasha stretches out on the cot, wincing as the cool leather meets her skin. The restraints are right next to her head, but she staunchly refuses to look at them.

“Hi,” Clint breathes as he settles on top of her, his erection pressing into her stomach as he bends to kiss a path down her throat, shoulders, the tops of her breasts.

Natasha spits into her palm, gets a hand around his cock and gives him the few quick strokes she knows will wind him up in a moment like this. Clint groans low in his throat, sucks a bruise onto her clavicle. He holds her gaze as he settles between her legs, and sinks into her with a determination that says this is about reclaiming something she hasn’t even realized was lost. She rocks her hips up to meet him as he starts to move, lets the pain of the last few days fall away.

Clint exhales raggedly with each thrust, and for a few blissful minutes there is nothing but the two of them, moving in harmony, like the beating of a heart. Natasha rolls her head back when she comes, biting down on the shout that’s bubbling up in her chest. Clint buries his face in her shoulder as he follows her to climax, collapsing against her. Natasha wraps her arms around him, holding on tightly as he shakes, his breath coming convulsively.

“You okay?” she asks, when she’s able to find her voice again.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, the heat of his breath brushing her neck. “Just--come home, please?” He sits up, reaching for his pants. 

Natasha nods once, curtly, though somehow it feels as though _home_ has never been so far away.


End file.
